


Portraits of the House of Black

by GreyWolfandMoon



Series: Deep Sea Knows No End [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Andromeda is such a Slytherin, Angst, Background Wolfstar, Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), F/M, First War with Voldemort, Funerals, Gen, M/M, Orion Black's A+ Parenting, Portraits, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Vignette, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyWolfandMoon/pseuds/GreyWolfandMoon
Summary: The rise and fall of the Black Family through the First War into the second, told from six perspectives.There was Walburga, iron-willed and ruthless.There was Andromeda, black sheep and sly.Then there was Sirius, who finally figured out why the burned marks were left on the tapestry instead of going into nonexistence.It was, after all, just different paths they’d taken; at the end of the day, they all led to the same crypt of doom.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black & Andromeda Black Tonks, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Deep Sea Knows No End [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658617
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Portraits of the House of Black

**i. Walburga Black, eldest daughter of Pollux and Irma Black, wife of Orion Black.**

Walburga Black never thought she would _not_ be a portrait in her ancestral home. Born a Black, married a Black, Grimmauld Place was her childhood, maidenhood, adulthood, and it would be her resting place. It was only rightful that she became part of the collections that had looked over generations of the family, like the stars that they were named after, eternal, steady, holy.

Portraits don’t actually feel. They are not real people but magical artefacts, their owner’s personality bound to them by a spell. Their emotions and specific reactions depended on the condition of the owner the spell was cast. The day Walburga had her portrait painted was a frigid day, a rare day on which her mind was clear and stable when not muddled with grief, so the painted gifted her nice velvet curtains which she could shut to ward off the cold. She had sat in the grand hall, black dress and hair regal. As much Calming Draught as she had consumed that day, her carefully controlled, haughty, majestic expression was coloured by a permanent tinge of sorrow that was so accurately captured that it never faded.

The house had been quiet. There were no – would no longer have – footsteps echoing in the hallway, children bantering in the rooms, cracking of uncontrolled magic in the study, flipping of pages in the library. Old Kreacher was obedient. He had made sure even his breaths were light and shallow when his mistress had told him not to make a single noise. Noise distracted her, she’d said. A sound as simple as a needle dropping to the carpeted floor could set her on an earth-shaking fit of rage and crumble the thin slice of reality she was barely holding on to.

Painting the Portrait was, after all, a solemn event; a ritual that their family had been doing since the beginning of time. It was more important than coming of age; it was recognition that a person was a proper member of the Black family. She had to present herself best, because it heralded the start of her immortality.

‘We’ll finish with the portrait once we cast the spell, ma’am. Would you like me to carry on?’

It was a familiar question. More a statement than a question, in fact. An experienced painter as such had worked for the pureblood families for so long that he knew the ones who said no were rare, and Walburga was not one of them. She nodded dully, her mind a blank. But she never completely filled the hollow within, never completely cleared her mind; in the back of her mind where vestigial reason lay, she knew she made the worst decision in her life. In the centuries that followed, she would be tied to her feelings in this exact moment, programmed to react the way she would now do. A stimulus would drop, she would be roused from her sleep, and memories would surface. Again and again, she would be reminded of the loss of her dear son, the betrayal of that filth, and she would experience the shock of learning the news, and anger, and pain, and grief. Again. Again. Again.

But she would also remember. There was the original wonder of hearing the thing in her arms cry, seeing the tuff of black hair, like hers, like her fathers, grow into a spiral; the tiny piece of tenderness within her that she had kept from everyone but herself. She was a true Black after all; there was a core in her as bright as stars that burned like the constellations above.

It would be as much her eternal Hell as her nostalgic Heaven. 

**ii. Orion Black, son of Arcturus III and Melania Black, husband of Walburga Black.**

Orion Black never had so much a thought to give about being a portrait. In fact, Orion Black did little thinking. Why would he need to, when all was in place since the day he was born? He would wake up to sunlight – precisely at eight, as per his mother’s instruction, and someone would cook him breakfast and hand him his books. He would sit down at the desk, and tutors would come and tell him what he should learn and know. His was never a step too slow, a line too quick; it didn’t quite matter what interested him or bored him. He just learned as he was told. At some point his parents told him he would marry cousin Walburga, and he just nodded and picked a day – even then he was perplexed, for perhaps the first time in his life, because he would rather his parents give him the date and everything be done as they wished. The whole thing had been their idea anyway. His involvement was minimal; it was no more than his presence at the wedding and reading aloud the vows.

Orion didn’t feel much. To put it better: he was as unfeeling as Walburga was _feeling_. She had a big temper. She screamed, she hissed, she lashed out; the surface of a properly raised lady could barely conceal the mercuriality within. The first time he met her was in one of the countless Black family gatherings. He had snuck out into the garden when his mother wasn’t looking, and cousin Walburga – whose name he constantly heard being mentioned with his own but who he had never seen in the flesh before – was there, her braids wound nicely at the back of her little head.

‘Hello,’ Orion said, his voice tinny, his body partly concealed behind the marble statue. He didn’t greet the formal way; the most natural side of a boy slid out having seen a child of similar age.

But she only stared at him and frowned, ‘Do uncle and aunt teach you that?’ and stalked away, her heels clicking. Where she had been standing was thick smoke smelled strongly of premature magic and the carcass of an unknown animal. Its skin was peeling away, exposing the red flesh underneath. Orion cringed; not as much at the bloody scene as at his cousin’s having gone much farther in magic than he. Walburga’s curt reply left a little rabbit in him, it punched and skittered and pulled at his moods, and he found the back of his eyes stung a little.

But perhaps that was the last time he even felt something remotely like hurt. In retrospect, he got plenty of time to have to face her anyway, and it wasn’t like her company would have been especially pleasant. Where life pressed on him, he yielded; he couldn’t find himself a playmate, so he got to enjoy the carcass all by himself. He became a wedded man over the course of two weeks, from learning the news and hosting the engagement party and the wedding itself, and a father, in the months that he slept on beds other than his own, so he returned dutifully and did what his parents did and start preparing for heirs and heiresses.

Walburga never asked where he went and why he came back, and he never told. He wouldn’t have remembered anyway. The only evidence of that was a burnt scar on his chest that he, for some reason and against his knowledge, had let healed naturally. He vaguely remembered the candle drops and the burning, strangely, masochistically euphoric sensation and a question he’d asked: ‘Why not Lumos?’ and she, in silk lingerie and weird blue trousers instead of robes, had looked perplexed.

Walburga commissioned a painting for him the next day. As usual, he was notified only when a strange young man showed up in his property and told him that he was to sit for a portrait that afternoon. His wife had smiled when she explained this was little gift she’d prepared for him for their anniversary. It was a sunny afternoon in spring. There was no one but them and the painter, a new coziness and lightness he never experienced. Their son – sons? – had been exiled into the garden, and it seemed to him that her mood was exceptionally good that day. For the first time since they were married, she handed him a mug of tea that he had not requested earlier. And, as she sat next when the portrait was in the making, Orion opposite her, and he was consciously aware of how she’d looked at him more times than she had on their wedding day.

When it was all finished, the painter inquired politely if he’d like it spelled. The young painter had looked not at him, but her, and she in turn at him. ‘No,’ was his answer, so carelessly threw out that it hit his companions harder than he imagined.

‘No?’ Her voice was not its usual steeliness, just a lilt as it danced across the air.

‘No,’ he affirmed. He missed the quiet of his study, and he wanted to go back quickly. Walburga didn’t argue. Ten minutes later, he was released from the abominably short stool. Before he climbed to the top of the stairs, just a few steps away from his blessed private space –

‘Would you call the children down? I shall check on their Latin.’

Orion shrugged and did as he was told so. Though by what means she did not specify, so when his elder son emerged before his mother, he had blisters on his arm and bruises on his face. The painting sat in the living hall, solemn and grave, blissfully oblivious to his son’s rude gestures and grimaces.

It did not age well; slashed right in the middle, across his face, were tea stains and mould; for although Kreacher served his masters well, he was never a keeper for abandoned goods.

~~**iii.** ~~ **~~Andromeda Black Tonks, blood traitor, second daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, wife of Edward Tonks.~~ ** ~~~~

Word among the purebloods about the blood traitor bitch was that her Aunt Walburga popped an artery the day she blasted her niece off the tapestry, when she was giving her brother a hefty scold on the importance of _proper_ raising and education. It wasn’t true; well, not entirely true. Her father did get a blast from his sister, and they _both_ did nearly pop an artery; but Walburga didn’t blast her off the tapestry. Andromeda did.

There were black sheep in every generation of Blacks, but no black sheep, like her, ever had the flair of blasting themselves off the family tree. Just a flick of her wand, a spell that had been boiling in her for years, a decided mind, a hardened of heart; and ‘BAMB’! her name was gone.

It was a curious feeling. It felt like severing a limb, despite a limb that Andromeda had not wanted but did not hate it enough to cut herself free earlier. The moment the first syllable of the spell tumbled out of the mouth, a current began to surge in her body; volatile, hot, dazzling; the moment the last sound vanished into the air, the currents that had been building erupted out of her like lava from a volcano. For a second – somewhere in her gave a jerking ache, followed by a hollow feeling, a kind of hollowness that was at once terrific and terrifying to her.

There was a sudden flash. Andromeda turned, and her throat tightened. Walburga had had her wand pointed at Ted. Andromeda’s heart sank. Damn her Slytherin pride! She never should have brought Ted here. It wasn’t the right time to show off. She never thought Aunt Walburga would go as far as to do Ted harm to keep the Black blood clear from the rest. But the internal turmoil didn’t stop her mind from racing. As her gaze swivelled around the drawing room, she acted as soon as her eyes touched upon little Regulus Black, who stood closest and the least alarmed.

There were flashes of movement in the periphery of her vision. The first was from Sirius, who was had taken half a step forwards and frozen, and on his face were extreme shock, hurt from betrayal, and fright; the other was from her own sister Narcissa, who had always liked to play mother to her little cousin. She had put her hand on her mouth, her grey eyes round and wide. Andromeda knew what they were thinking: they thought such low trick was only ever played by Bellatrix.

Against her arms, Regulus started sobbing. But he was a stubborn boy, as much as he was confused by cousin Andromeda as he was scared, he kept his voice down. He would have started wailing if this was a game – in fact, Andromeda’s memory of the last game they played was as clear as day – but he understood it wasn’t, because mother was shaking, and uncle and aunt never looked half as pale as they did now.

‘Regulus!’ Walburga shrieked. Andromeda tightened her grip on her wand and gave a little prod. Sirius sucked in a breath.

‘Release Ted, and I’ll let Regulus go.’

Her calmness had deceived everyone, including herself. She only remembered pushing – guiding – Regulus to the door, her hand on his shoulder firm but gentle. It was only after Ted was out of Walburga’s shot that she gave a little pat on Regulus’s shoulder, knowing this would be the last memory he had of her, and she was sorry it wasn’t a friendlier one. But having a cold heart was part of being a Black; as much as she had used it to get away, it had prevented her name from being ever mentioned again, as though she had never existed.

**~~iv. Alphard Black, blood traitor, youngest son of Pollux and Irma Black.~~ **

Alphard Black’s funeral was held in the garden of a small, nameless chapel in York, far, far away from London, his birthplace. It was so simple a ceremony, its events so unorthodox that it could hardly be called a funeral; there were no coffin, no candles, just a scatter of ashes, a wreath of flowers, a box of old things, and a few guests who were dressed in odd medieval robes, dark shadows in the rain and fog.

_Buzz_. The air vibrated, magical energies surging up as Sirius materalised out of existence in the shadow of a bush. Beside him was Remus, who was in an expensive- looking black coat that was a bit too broad for him. Sirius shook his wand free of the dusts that came with apparating, and then a force weighed on it, pressing it down.

‘Don’t,’ said a woman. Her voice was low and alerted.

‘Andromeda.’ Sirius took a breath quietly. ‘It’s been a while.’

It had taken him sometime to process her being here, but really, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. She was as beautiful as always, her stormy grey eyes clear and deep, but her presence was no longer as formidable as it used to be, like her big sister’s. Instead, if she kept her face down and let her hair fall so that those sharp cheekbones and clean jawline didn’t show, she would be hardly noticeable among a crowd. Bellatrix was a snake with bright patterns and a giant head; she was a snake that was well-camouflaged into the surroundings but just as venomous.

Sirius looked down. His wand was still being pressed against his robes. ‘What is that for?’

Andromeda didn’t speak. Instead she eyed Remus coolly. 

Sirius clasped his hand with Remus’s, his tone much like hers, ‘Family.’

Andromeda gave a sharp nod, ‘I see,’ but her hand refused to release Sirius wand. She stuck her chin towards the entrance – before he could make another sound, a figure stepped through the fog and into the garden. It was a man in his late thirties, his tie tight against the woolen blazer, a rucksack in his hand. Andromeda and Sirius exchanged a glance, an unsaid agreement reached. They stepped out of the shadow at the same time.

‘Got off work and went back to fetch something, just in time.’ The man sounded out of breath, untimely wrinkles that were clearly the result of immense sadness and fatigue crept up his forehead.

Sirius and Andromeda nodded politely. Silence stretched on. Remus stood a step backwards from the Blacks, giving them privacy, the man standing at their side. There were some other three or four people, an old lady and a child, a thin widow, a young boy with a shoulder bag and a carton of milk. They all expressed their profound sadness at their kind neighbour’s death, each shaking and hugging – not the Blacks, but the man, Mr Whitby, to whom they said – ‘Your brother was such a good man, Mr Whitby, and I’m so sorry for you’ – and he returned their kindness with heartfelt gratitude. Andromeda and Sirius watched, saying nothing. Mr Whitby did not explain. At last, when all the guests were gone except them, and when Mr Whitby decided that enough staring and meditating was done, he bent to pick up his rucksack and took out a piece of paper. It was a charcoal portrait of Alphard, his smile bright and jolly, just like how Sirius remembered him – no, perhaps a bit younger and happier, and his cheeks fuller.

‘Alphard had always liked sitting for portraits,’ Mr Whitby said quietly. ‘Weird hobby. He’d framed them afterwards, but we were always a bit skint for oil paints.’

The use of the collective noun did not escape Sirius’s ears. Andromeda’s gaze was searching. At length, she raised her chin at the wreath where Mr Whitby had placed the portrait. ‘Did Alphard organize this?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Whitby chuckled, and the Black cousins shared a knowing smile of their batty uncle who probably directed his funeral (‘just in case’, he’d say) at breakfast. ‘His savings, as well, what for this service and place.’ Mr Whitby looked around, and the pockets where his hands were in shrivelled. ‘It still costs money, you know. Not that I’m unwilling to pay for it.’

Sirius gave a slight frown. ‘His savings –?’ He thought of the lawyer who contacted a few days ago about his inheritance from Alphard at Gringotts. It probably wasn’t worth much, but it should be enough to last a few years of heavy lavishing and more than enough for a funeral ten times the size of this. 

‘Aye. He worked very hard. I had asked him to leave off his night shifts, but… Well, let’s just say he was a very stubborn man.’

‘He sure was. But he never talked about the vault–?’ Mr Whitby looked very confused. ‘ – Gringotts? Hog –’

Sirius closed his mouth abruptly. He understood now. Mr Whitby hadn’t the slightest idea of the magical world, or the darkness, the blood; the doom that was looming above it. It was as much his uncle’s determination to cut all ties with the world that threw him out as his intention to protect those he cared about.

Before they left, Sirius shoved into Mr Whitby’s hands a hastily written cheque. The man had been surprised, but, perhaps having got used to Alphard getting his way through everything, he accepted it. As Sirius and Remus returned to their spot of apparition, Andromeda the other side so that they didn’t look too conspicuous, Remus was surprised how painfully tight Sirius’s grip on his hand was.

‘If I –‘

‘Don’t,’ Remus said.

Sirius was rarely so quiet. ‘It’s a war.’

‘It is as much for me as it is for you. It’s for everyone,’ Remus paused, looking at his watch, ‘I’m afraid we have to hurry. The job interview is half an hour later.’

Right. Sirius had reminded himself to get clothes for Remus and make dinner when he was done. Just because someone died didn’t mean the world had stopped turning. Sirius shrugged. Together, they disapparated.

**v. Regulus Acturus Black, youngest son of Orion and Walburga Black**

While the death of Alphard hinted at the initial collapse of the Black family, the people in the system was unaware of the approaching danger. Those who spent the night outside continued to do so until one day, he was found dead on the bed of an unknown woman, bottles and joints and syringes around; those who had been adapting to the life of a single wife officially announced her widowhood; and those who were supposed to be young and carefree were forced to stand on opposite sides, fighting a war that was instigated by no one but those who instilled antipathy in them. But there were always exceptions. There were people with blurred identities and improved mindsets so they were either unwilling to actively participate in the war or sought to mend relations. It was in such circumstance that Regulus Black and Remus Lupin met in a dingy werewolf pub where Regulus was on mission to confer with the wolves.

‘So.’ Regulus said with a whistle that was so unlike him. ‘Does my brother know you’re here?’

Lupin said after a long pause: ‘No.’

‘Do the werewolves know your real identity?’

Another pause. ‘No.’

Regulus eyed him cautiously. Usually reserved, werewolf, important member of the Order, Lupin was indeed excellent spy material. He cleared his throat. ’I’m here on the Dark Lord’s order to talk about the agreement we last reached between your pack and our unit. It is of utmost importance to our alliance.’ Which was a complete lie. He was here because he wasn’t important enough to take part in higher missions. And being received by Lupin told him enough that the wolf pack didn’t take it any more serious than the Death Eaters did.

But little did the wolves and Voldemort himself know how much weight these two people carried. Regulus was surprised to see how many wolves had had a subtle change in their views regarding their alliance since he last visited. He cast a look at Lupin, who was sitting in the shadow, his back hunched. Regulus could easily expose him and end the man right here, but the flash in his eyes said he had detected something in Regulus which he had worked so hard to hide. Perhaps it was spy instinct to spot out those with a different heart. A chill rose up Regulus’s spine. Whoever the spy on their side was – it could well be Lupin, who could say for sure? – Regulus must act quicker than him. He had set his mind right then; even when it was just him and Lupin as Regulus took leave, and Lupin called behind in an uncertain tone: ‘Black –‘ he didn’t stop. The only and final message he left was:

‘Don’t disappoint my brother.’

_Don’t be the spy._

And then he picked up his pace.

When he came home, he had only half a mind when he crossed the threshold and nearly tripped on his mother’s favourite Persian carpet. It then occurred to him that the drawing room was occupied by guests. He looked at the clock. It was four in the afternoon, but it had been a long time since Mother had the pleasure of inviting anyone over for tea. He looked up just in time to see Kreacher slinking out of the room with a silver tray and tea and biscuits that were hardly touched. Kreacher being banished from the conversation for serving the guests was the most unusual. The Blacks – Regulus winced as nausea flowed – took great pride on how well they trained their servants. And then there were the closed doors, and the erect Japanese screen that had only ever served as decoration. All were ominous signs. Regulus’s throat tightened as his heart hammered in his chest, Lupin and the wolves and the flash in his eyes rose before him. Was Lupin a bigger disappointment than he thought? – Unless –?

‘They’re in there,’ said the portrait of Lady Cassiopeia. She was one of the kinder ones who would talk to Regulus when he was bored. Sir Phineas at the side, however, gave a scornful grunt.

Regulus inhaled and only turned after he made sure he looked presentable enough. ‘Thank you, Lady Cassiopeia. May I ask who are they?’

‘Walburga and Cygnus,’ replied Lady Cassiopeia kindly, while Sir Phineas said: ‘How low has the House fallen!’

Mother and Uncle! Regulus was shocked, but at the same time the dreadful feeling was lifted from him like a heavy rock from his fragile heart. _So it wasn’t –._ He clutched his left arm. Uncle rarely came over nowadays, not with Bellatrix busy at the Dark Lord’s and Narcissa married.

‘Kreacher has prepared tea for Master Regulus,’ announced the elf with a deep bow, his face hidden from Regulus. But there weren’t the telltale wretched ragged breaths and writhing and moans, which Regulus had ordered to be kept a secret, so he could only assumed everything was going as planned.

If that was the case, Regulus wanted more than ever to hear what his mother had to say to his uncle in this time of the year. He leaned on the door where voices came from. But he hardly needed to, because a shout that was unmistakably his mother’s arose the next moment.

‘I do not want this to continue! Not anymore! Bellatrix can go all she pleases, but Regulus must cease dabbling in it!’

Regulus stood up in surprise. He had always thought mother supported his joining the Death Eaters. Wasn’t ridding the world of Mudbloods her ideal? She had been so disappointed by what Sirius turned out to be. All these years, he had lived how his family wanted him to live, do what his family wanted him to do, and he had been so critical of Sirius’s selfishness, and yet – how come?

His uncle was almost pleading. ‘The Dark Lord is very powerful. It is our honour having our offspring to join him. Surely, sister, you do not want to bring ruin but glory to this House, which has stood hundreds and thousands of year?’

‘Bellatrix is nearly ten years older than Regulus! Just because she can do the Dark Lord’s biddings doesn’t mean Regulus can. I will close off Grimmauld Place’s access, and all of you – your daughters, the Malfoys, the Finches, the Yaxleys – even the Dark Lord himself, will have only the wards to find. There is a reason this House has stood hundreds and thousands of years, Cygnus.’

‘Pathetic creatures,’ sneered Sir Phineas. ‘To fear a Dark Lord like that. Who is he, God?’

_Almost_ , thought Regulus darkly. The Blacks were _proud_. They would never understand how anyone could stoop that low to feed his greedy soul. Money they didn’t want more, influence they had enough, immortality – what is it? No one could be half as immortal as the stars they were named after. After a Pollux, there would be another Pollux among his children, and more and more down the line. If there was anything that had prevented the Blacks from take the same path as Voldemort, it was their snobbery and sense of self-preservation. It wasn’t just pure coincidence that all Blacks had been in Slytherin.

And there came Walburga’s voice again. ‘… what about Narcissa? Regulus is as much my son as Narcissa is your daughter. And where is she now? Sipping tea at home? – As much as I support the Dark Lord’s cause, it should be left to people who are actually capable instead of children who barely know magic...’

Regulus drew away. Kreacher trailed behind him in silence. ‘Children who barely know magic’, that was what his mother thought of him. Regulus nearly laughed out loud. He thought of what he heard from people about Sirius calling him ‘soft and week.’ He so wanted to stand up and clarify that, no, he was not. But that was okay. It would aid him a good deal when he sneaked out of home a few days later. In bitter defiance he would do his mother proud, as well as the big brother who he would never have the chance to apologise to – but they would never know.

**~~vi. Sirius Orion Black, blood traitor, eldest son of Orion and Walburga Black~~ **

When Sirius put his hand on the tapestry again, he was surprised by its smoothness and fragility. It had always held a strong image in him, an object that had haunted him for the first fifteen years of his life. It felt like a thick parchment, on which recorded the orbits and trails of a thousand ancient stars.

The resentment he once felt for the tapestry was long gone. His palm brushed the scorched holes; he wondered why his ancestors didn’t simply erase those who disgraced the family but left them a mark – a mark that was as dark as the starry namesakes were bright. Was there any difference, after all?

He remembered meeting Andromeda once again in a funeral. A different time, a different place, but still the same two people, dressed in dull black and huddled in the shadow.

‘I’m surprised –‘ she said after some hesitation – ‘that you’ll be here.’

‘The feeling is mutual.’

‘Why,’ she turned away. That wasn’t really a question. ‘He was my little cousin as well.’

Sirius was thankful that she had the tact of not enquiring about his lone presence. Remus had been with him last time. This time, Sirius hadn’t told him about the funeral.

They stood in silence. Wind wafted from the chapel, bringing to them the notes of the pianoforte and the murmur of people. It wasn’t an open funeral. Only close friends and family were invited, and Sirius knew with one look at his mother from far away that she possessed the same knowledge as him – that the Malfoys only came because of Narcissa. Bellatrix was nowhere to be seen. Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if Walburga had kept the funeral from her. He looked again. Walburga was stiff, and Lucius Malfoy’s contempt, as much as he wanted to conceal it, was only so apparent that Narcissa seemed the whiniest baby next to him. She was all tears and red eyes, but as she had come as Mrs Malfoy, she had to keep her emotions at bay. Mrs Malfoy was no moody crybaby.

‘My mother wouldn’t have given this chapel the merest glance if it wasn’t for Regulus,’ said Sirius in a low voice. ‘Who would have thought? Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, buried without a body, remembered in secret and shame.’

‘Which reminds me of Alphard,’ replied Andromeda, ‘the black sheep of the family, the hated sibling of the three. And look, his funeral wasn’t so bad compared with that of the true heir’s.’

‘Is that to say we’ll all end up the same no matter what?’ Sirius gave a bitter chuckle. ‘Wouldn’t have taken all that trouble of defying them if I had known that. Once a Black, forever a Black. I thought that was just mother’s silliness. Ha ha.’

Sirius had soon found that to be true. It was, after all, just different paths they’d taken; at the end of the day, they all led to the same crypt of doom. Yet Azkaban had toughened his soul just as it had sharpened his wits, he came out a very different person than he had gone in – more mature, more level-headed, and knew in his heart what he held as the most important. Despite his realisation, he had hoped himself to be an exception.

‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked Remus, ‘that I lived in the cave instead of finding you?’

‘Quite,’ Remus was honest, ‘but I know you wanted to stay by Harry. I would’ve done the same.’

Sirius nodded, the untimely disappointment reminded him of the ability to feel; he had hoped for a more heated reply. He took out the parchment he had been keeping as a roll under his arm.

Remus leaned in, his hair brushing Sirius’s cheek. ‘What is it?’

‘My will,’ Sirius said solemnly.

Remus was hesitant: ‘Sirius –‘

‘Remember Alphard? And the quirky Mr Whitby?’

Remus closed his eyes.

‘This is another war, mate. How lucky are we,’ Sirius laughed dryly. ‘But –‘ he straightened his back – ‘there’s something I need to speak to you about.’

There was a pause. And then: ‘There is not a soul in the world that I love more than you, and you know that.’ His leg started bouncing, and his voice grew rapturous as he stared intensely at Remus. ‘There’s a lot of things which I should’ve done better, could’ve handled better, and I’m sorry I hadn’t. If I loved you less, I would have been able to see better and judge with a clearer mind. – But this is different. James and Lily had asked me to take care of Harry. I made promises, and I hadn’t been able to fulfill them.’

Remus’s hands were on Sirius’s, and he felt a jet a warmth flowing into him. He took a deep breath. ‘I have decided to name Harry my heir. I will give him this house and my inheritance after I die. There is no compensation for what he has lost when I wasn’t with him. Passing on my properties to him is the least I can do for him.’

‘Sirius,’ Remus’s voice was low, ‘there is only so much I cannot do, and you have done it for me.’

Sirius pressed his cheek against his. He felt bones, but it was everything he’d felt for a long time.

‘Promise me,’ Remus held his hand, ‘that if you had to choose between me and Harry, choose him. This is as much your promise to me as our promise to James and Lily. If you love me, you will not make me guilty.’

Sirius agreed. This was their second war, and whatever that had gone wrong last time, was righted this time. No words were needed between them – here were hardly any words that were powerful enough to convey their emotions. They passed the evening in silence as their vows renewed. So when at last the Order called, and Sirius pulled out a new wand, Remus did not protest. They had shot up from the kitchen table, Sirius wringing his hands, adrenaline rising on both worry and excitement. Remus had handed him his fighting robes, like he’d always done back then, and Sirius had fetched the brooms. Before they left, he gave his childhood home one last glance, and he turned to Remus. He saw himself in those eyes, though now lined with wrinkles and bags, which he could remember both by sight and heart. He grinned.

It was indeed impossible for a star to derail from its orbit, and Sirius thought he knew why the burned marks were left on the tapestry instead of going into nonexistence. He _felt_ the veil’s call as soon as he set foot in the eerie chamber; and in the deepest part in him, he knew this was his orbit all along. He was torn, though: one half of him longed to touch it, and go behind it – to go into the unknown; the other half of him saw Harry, who was duelling nearly as well as James, and Remus across the chamber, his silver hair gleaming. They were as much his duties as his support; they were the reasons he went through Azkaban and the imprisonment at Grimmauld Place. It was hard to say who needed who more; though on Sirius’s side, he knew he couldn’t last a day without the thought of his dearest people in mind. But the veil was _so_ close, so tempting, that when Bellatrix’s spell finally hit him, and he fell, the veil behind him – he could feel it waving at him, embracing him, accepting him.

He felt a thousand emotions in that split second. Surprise and confusion gave way to fright as Harry’s face singled itself out in the chaotic mess, being the sharpest focus of Sirius’s fading vision; it was as though the world had stopped. He heard nothing; he heard everything. The murmurs from the veil became louder –

–‘Sirius, you daft dog, there’s no reason to hurry. Moony will alert us when the prefects are around. Right, Moony?’ –

–‘Sirius dear, don’t cry. We’ve always loved you – you are our second son. Now, let me see – ah, we can fix this. Don’t cry…’ –

–‘I’m sorry I didn’t know you earlier, but I’m happy now that I do. You will treat Remus well, will you? I’ll kill you personally if you don’t.’ –

And:

–‘Sirius! Sirius! Mother is coming. Quick, hide your diary!’ –

He remembered everything, even the memories which the Dementors had scorched from his being. He remembered falling into the strong arms of James Potter, feeling the strength and warmth of friendship and brotherhood. He remembered the wonder of stepping into Hogwarts the first time, and the joy of meeting new people. He remembered watching the person he loved dearer than himself and the butterflies in his stomach. He remembered watching the constellations on his uncle’s roof, and the jokes and wrestling, the love and hate between brothers and brothers alone. 

He looked towards Harry one last time. Remus was holding him back, veins popping on his neck, but his brown eyes were locked with his grey ones. He was telling him: that he understood. That Sirius could rest, and he would do everything in his power to take care of Harry, because he, too, like Sirius, had been James’s best friend. In that instant, there was a promise fulfilled, a portrait drawn –

_Show me Eternity, and I will show you Memory –_

–In those clear brown eyes, the faded smile of a lover –

_Be you – while I’m Mortality –_

_Be next – what you have ever been – Infinity._


End file.
